


Warmth and Tears

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Just some schmoop, M/M, Stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-04
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2018-01-03 11:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1069721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is warm, and Sherlock has something to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warmth and Tears

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happen when I stay up til 1:30 and have the urge to write.

Warmth.

That post-coital heat that wraps around one's limbs and creates that treasured lethargy, the one that feels like the first blinks of a winter hibernation.

That is what John Watson woke to.

He also woke to another warm thing, slowly meandering it's way down his cheek and towards the crease of his mouth. As it fell, it left a cold trail; when it reached his mouth, John licked his lips slowly, lethargically--then frowned.

Why did it taste salty?

Rumbling in his throat to clear out the sleepy, gravelly noises, John turned his nose away from where it had been buried in a certain consulting detective's hair, right behind a sweet-smelling ear, and made an attempt at speaking. 

"Sh'lock? Wha's goin' on?"

Although he didn't seem to be capable of intelligent conversation quite yet, John pushed himself up and over, on to a lean, pale chest, and made himself focus on the face before him.

And what a face it was.

However many times John Watson saw his Sherlock Holmes, he could never quite get over how unique the man's face was. Some would call it beautiful, some would call it posh, some would call it angular, and others, just odd. To John, who was, to quote himself, rather plain and blocky, the man before him was none of those things; he was simply John's, and that made him forever beautiful in the small man's eyes.

"Sherlock? Are you alright, love?"

John brought a hand up to cradle his detective's cheek in his palm, and to wipe away the tears running down the high cheekbones; Sherlock lay flat on his back, with his head turned almost completely to the left, trying to hide how tightly shut his eyes were, how puffy his face was starting to get, and, most importantly, to trying to hide the emotions running down his face.

"John...don't--I don't know why I am crying. I am not--I'm not sad, but, at the same time, every part of me seems to ache, and it's painful, but I don't want it to end because it makes me feel full, and joyful at the same time. John? I think--I think that...maybe..."

"Sherlock, what is it? You know you can tell me. Please?"

John was starting to feel a slight niggle of worry. What had prompted this?

Sherlock sniffed (rather daintily, truth be told), and cleared his throat.

"I think that...now that I have gathered sufficient data...I can truthfully say, with no regrets or wishes for better eloquence, that...I, Sherlock Holmes...really, truly, absolutely love you, John Hamish Watson."

Blinking blearily, Sherlock smiled up at a slowly-melting John; completely lost in each other's stares, the men lay frozen like that for many minutes, with John stroking the soft, dark locks below him, and with Sherlock tracing the still-powerful shoulders of the blonde above him.

After a time, John leaned down and pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his beloved's lips, then wrapped an arm around the bony waist below and once again tucked his nose into Sherlock's hair, right back into that sweet-smelling spot.

"Sherlock, I love you too. Always."


End file.
